


deeply devoted

by Moulinet



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moulinet/pseuds/Moulinet
Summary: Under the anger and resistance, there is a pull that forever connects them.
Relationships: Vanitas/Ventus (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 117





	deeply devoted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tzavine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tzavine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Before the Beginning and After the End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871914) by [Tzavine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tzavine/pseuds/Tzavine). 



> hey  
> hey guess what  
> ...  
> i wrote this for a friend  
> LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Vanitas has known two worlds intricately and of those two worlds, the Land of Departure is, undoubtedly, better. There are people he has to tolerate, rules he has to follow, and magic he has to learn, but it’s better than the sound of metal clashing together and the feeling of ghosts placing their hands on his shoulder.

There are an insurmountable amount of things he has never been exposed to, lessons he’s never learned, traditions and activities he’s never experienced, but the one that he is most shocked to see and _feel_ is the change of weather. Vanitas has never felt raindrops. He’s never seen rain clouds. It was only the bright bitterness of the sun and the heat that was lurid and inescapable.

Now, it is open and airy. There’s grass, there are trees, there’s wind that doesn’t carry the scent of copper and sweat. Rain drowns the forecourt in darker shades and puddles. Vanitas sits in the middle of it all, unbothered by the tightness of his clothing and the stickiness of his soaked hair. The rain is a gentle caress, water falling in rivulets down his body.

Vanitas turns his hand over and feels the rain on his palm. He feels each drop fall over him and listens to the hush of the downpour over the court and further out onto the mountains and into empty air. It is the only sound he hears. There is thunder in the distance. Lightning makes itself known in bright flashes. Vanitas stares down at his palm.

“Vanitas!”

He knows it’s Ventus. He feels it. Not with his heart or with his senses, but with the connection that had brought them together and torn them apart. He _knows_ it’s Ventus because every part of his body begins to sing at his approach. The darkness inside him reacts, just as it always has, and Vanitas knows that it is him.

He doesn’t turn around to look at him. He only stays out in the rain. It’s a little cold. There’s so much of it. It falls and falls, and eventually, it’ll stop. The air will be humid tomorrow. The rain puddles will clear away. Each day is different for this world. It’s not stuck in time, a memorial for those long since departed. There is ancient history etched into the walls and stone of the Land of Departure, but it is allowed to grow and change.

“Vanitas, come inside! You’ll get sick!”

He won’t get sick, but he closes his palm and slowly stands up anyway. He feels the water run down his arms and face at its own pace. He closes his eyes and says his goodbyes and then turns and walks up the steps to the front door.

Ventus is waiting there. The door is open. He looks worried and something stirs in Vanitas’ chest. He scowls at the feeling. Ventus frowns, thinking that expression is meant for him.

It’s not. It _is_. Vanitas doesn’t know.

Ventus frowns deeper after taking in the sorry state Vanitas is in. “You’re going to drag water all over the place…”

“A shame,” Vanitas says, though he’s lying and he personally doesn’t care about the water or the castle or anything. He enjoyed his time with the rain. He wanted to turn around and wait until it was finished, but Ventus had called, and he had to answer.

Ventus steps back to allow Vanitas past the doorway, but blocks him from walking further into the hall. He takes out a hand and from his palm comes a calm wind. He aims it at Vanitas and attempts to dry him with a pathetic aero spell. It won’t do anything worth a damn, but Vanitas doesn’t stop him from trying.

“We have umbrellas,” Ventus chides.

“I know.”

“And raincoats, jackets, hoodies--”

“I _know_.”

Ventus leans back when he sees his attempt at drying Vanitas isn’t going anywhere. He looks up at him, green eyes filled with light, as always. “You wanna tell me why you sat in the rain for hours?”

Vanitas looks at him. He considers opening up about his time in the Keyblade Graveyard. He contemplates being vulnerable. After some deliberation, he decides, “no,” and sidesteps Ventus to continue down the hallway.

Compared to the quiet grey of night and rain, the castle is bright and gaudy. Unapologetically, he leaves wet boot-prints behind him. He feels rain tailing down the back of his neck. He feels it dripping down his fingertips to fall onto the perfectly polished floor. He doesn’t care. He came inside like Ventus wished; what he does next is entirely his choice.

Vanitas turns left, away from the kitchen, away from the sound of two voices he doesn’t care about, away from togetherness and familiarity and away from the smell of food and comfort. He was denied one of his _own_ comforts, and so, he needs to find another. There is comfort in himself, in understanding who and what he is and having no other expectations placed upon him. He can sit in the dark and be with himself. He can think for the first time in years and not be half-blinded by pain.

His room is barren for the most part. There are books that he won’t read. There are gifts that were given to liven up the place. Vanitas has left them in their frilly boxes. There is a bed. There is a window. Vanitas crosses the room and opens it, letting the rain and that familiar hush back into his life. He places his elbows on the windowsill and closes his eyes.

By himself, he can sit in the darkness without fear of reaction or disdain. After everything, there are still those who don’t understand. It takes time to get rid of old habits and ways of thinking. Darkness has been met with scorn and disgust, but it’s an element, a force of nature, an important part of every cycle. In the dark, Vanitas reflects. He savors these moments away from the dry heat and dust. He listens to the rain, wishes to feel it upon his fingertips, but he finds comfort behind closed lids.

At least he does for a second, because Ventus has followed him. He’s outside his door, but he isn’t knocking. He _knows_ Vanitas can feel him, just like Ventus can feel Vanitas. And yet, he hesitates.

Vanitas is torn on how to feel. He appreciates his own company but having Ventus in his presence is so much better. It’s even greater when Ventus doesn’t talk and there’s silence and rain and the quiet of night. Ventus didn’t have to follow him, and yet he had. He’s actively seeking Vanitas out, either for some stupid task or reminder, or…

Or...because he also yearns for Vanitas’ company.

Vanitas quells that feeling. He lowers his expectations immediately.

A knocks sounds and Vanitas slowly opens his eyes. “Vanitas?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Vanitas, you need to get out of those clothes and shower. You could _still_ catch a cold, y’know.”

His eye twitches in irritation. He doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t show any sign that he heard or cares about what Ventus just said. He simply continues to listen to the rain, how it falls against the stone of the forecourt and hits the walls of the castle.

Ventus realizes that complaining and nagging isn’t going to work, and makes his way into Vanitas’ room. He closes the door behind him, giving them some privacy and quietly makes his way over to the window.

The rain falls over the window and paints the wood with moisture. As Ventus nears, Vanitas finds himself scooting over the _slightest_ bit to make room for him. Ventus slots easily into that space, looking out into the night of grey rainfall and cold winds. He squints his eyes as if to see something that isn’t there.

“Why were you sitting out there?” Ventus asks after two minutes of silence.

Vanitas’ eyes are just barely open. His attempts at self-reflection had been interrupted at every stop by his other half. The usual annoyance is there, a weight on his chest that never truly goes away, but with Ventus’ presence comes an influx of light and conversation. Vanitas can deny all he wants, but there is a part of him that longs for that.

So, he answers.

“I like the rain.”

“Why?”

Vanitas doesn’t answer that. He turns his head slightly and stares at Ventus and thinks that with enough time, he’ll figure out the answer himself. It’s right in front of him; of both of them. Why Ventus favors the wind; why Vanitas weathers the rain. That is why Vanitas finds some semblance of joy in storms. The rain spits against the window, rude and harsh. The wind twists and angers outside. Leaves and other debris scatter and swirl around to create miniature tornadoes.

They are a cloudburst. Chaotic and horrible and breathtaking all at once.

Ventus hums to his right, tilting his head in thought. “I think I get it.”

Vanitas snorts. “Do you?”

“I think so. Maybe.”

That’s something, at least. Vanitas nods subtly and leaves it at that.

Ventus continues to tilt his head as the rain comes. He continues to invade Vanitas’ space, slowly at first, and then all at once. Ventus rests his head on Vanitas’ shoulder, he presses his side against Vanitas’, his light pervades Vanitas’ space, a suffusing glow that is gentle and somewhat welcome.

It’s welcome because it’s what Vanitas wants. That warmth, that closeness, the heart that beats at the same pace as his own. He wants that, _seeks_ it. Vanitas is one step closer to what he needs and he shudders. Darkness curls around that light, eager and drawn to it. But Ventus gives more. He’s always giving, always smiling, always cheery. There are rare spurts of anger, but the darkest and deepest of emotions are left for Vanitas alone.

Ventus feels pieces of them now, through the gentle touch, in their connection pulling tight between them.

Vanitas takes in a breath and holds it. Ventus initiated this. He sought Vanitas out. He insisted, he pestered, he moved closer and closer in order to feel a smidgen of what his heart needed. Just by being this close together, it’s _better_. It feels tolerable. Manageable. It’s so close, yet not as close as they could be. It’s another barrier down when there are more and more to tear.

But there’s more to them than just light and dark. There is the feeling of Ventus’ hair, soft against his cheek. There is the warmth of his body against Vanitas’ own.

“Do you want to help me out of these clothes?” Vanitas asks, his eyes glued to the rainfall outside.

Ventus lets out a chuckle next to him, and Vanitas denies the way his fractured heart responds to the sound. “Finally. I was waiting for you to pick up on what I was saying.”

That’s...surprising. Vanitas turns his head slightly to glare at his counterpart. “You could’ve just said what you wanted instead of making me do all the work.”

And Ventus smiles up at him innocently, despite the fact that Vanitas knows he’s anything but. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Vanitas rolls his eyes and pushes away from the window. He takes Ventus’ hand and tugs him toward his bed, ignoring the way Ventus squeezes his hand.

They focus on removing Vanitas’ clothing before they lay back on the bed. “Don’t want to get your sheets wet,” Ventus informs him, but then Vanitas rolls his eyes in exasperation and points out how they’re going to get wet and dirty _anyway_.

Ventus just shoves him onto the bed and says that’s not the point.

This is how it usually goes. Vanitas is passive for the most part. He argues and wrestles and chides, but he allows Ventus to lead. Vanitas’ strategies had been deadly and fierce; Ventus’ are caring and needy. Whispers of something more flow from his fingertips, but they never discuss it. The sparkling light present in green eyes settles into something more moderate in temperature. The light isn’t as biting. The glow isn’t as glaring. It’s warm and calm and Vanitas leans into the change.

Ventus crawls over him. He straddles Vanitas’ hips and sits back, his hands resting on Vanitas’ chest. His eyes rove over Vanitas without shame or remorse. There are scars to carefully trace. There are muscles to appreciate. Vanitas does nothing as Ventus does what he wants. He lets himself be warmed by the fire, let’s it soothe his soul and chase away the coldness of dark.

He is a wretched, cursed thing, but when Ventus runs his fingers down his arms, delicately traces his lips with shy touches, cards his hands through wet black hair without fear, those awful sentiments are pushed so far away that Vanitas forgets about them entirely. When he looks into Ventus’ eyes, he sees himself the way Ventus sees him. An annoyance, a headache, his misunderstood other half, but he is a _marvel_. He is special, he is essential, and if the world sees him in such a disgusting way, then they don’t matter.

Darkness is nothing to fear. How could it be, when Ventus looks at him like he is the only thing Ventus needs?

Vanitas isn’t sure where to put his hands. He isn’t sure where to be looking or what to be doing. He isn’t still as he waits underneath Ventus, but he doesn’t jostle him, doesn’t instigate a wrestling match or flip their positions like his gut wants him to do. Light is falling gently from warm spring days, and Vanitas is under that spell. While Ventus takes his time and explores places he's been to before, Vanitas moves his hands to Ventus’ thighs and keeps them there. He doesn’t grab needily, he doesn’t grip so deeply that he leaves bruises and marks; his hands are on Ventus’ thighs, resting there, waiting, and Vanitas soaks up the light that is neither bitter nor harsh.

Ventus’ eyes are half-lidded as he says, “you stayed out there for too long.”

Vanitas hums.

“You’re still so wet.”

He smirks now and Ventus rolls his eyes and covers his mouth with a hand. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything,” Vanitas says, voice muffled.

“Yes you did,” Ventus says, and he eases his index finger past Vanitas’ lips. “Just not with your mouth.”

Vanitas can’t reply. He’s sucking on Ventus’ finger, wetting it with languid swirls of his tongue. His hands still calmly rest on Ventus’ thighs, but his hips jerk when Ventus starts moving against him, a slow roll against Vanitas’ still wet underwear that has him accidentally biting on Ventus’ finger in surprise.

He expects a harsh recoil or a biting glare, but all he receives is a grin. Ventus moves his finger along the inside of Vanitas’ mouth, poking and prodding just as he’d done with Vanitas’ chest and body. He continues to move his hips and Vanitas’ hands begin to tremble where they’re placed on Ventus’ thighs.

Ventus stares down at him. Hunger and need frolic within green pastures and there’s a heat that comes with the wind. All of that emotion is aimed at Vanitas, entrusted to _him_ , because he is the only one who knows what to do with it. Unhurriedly, Ventus floods his world with light. Vanitas fingers scrape along sculpted thighs and trails of darkness follow. They sear and burn but never too harshly. He is careful. He gives in short bursts and methodic turns.

With each pulsating beat, Ventus reacts. He leans forward, takes his finger out of Vanitas mouth, and runs it down Vanitas’ chest. He circles a nipple and smiles at the way Vanitas jolts. He sweeps his wet finger against the other and _grins_ at the glare Vanitas gives him. Ventus touches, caresses, teases, and smirks and Vanitas stares up at him with subdued want. He watches, enamored, as his brighter half takes what he wants. Control is placed solely in Ventus’ lap and Vanitas is happy that Ventus’ eyes are even cast in his direction.

After _everything_ , he is relieved at that fact.

Ventus’ hand grips his chin, forcing Vanitas’ attention where it already was. “You’re not bothered that you’re the only one without clothes on?”

Vanitas peaks out his tongue to wet his lips. He shakes his head as best he can in response. Ventus isn’t stronger than him; the only reason Ventus is keeping him still is because Vanitas wants him to.

Ventus studies him, eyes narrowing. Then, he leans down to do the very thing Vanitas had been waiting for, what his soul and broken heart both wanted. Ventus kisses him, and Vanitas latches on to Ventus’ thighs, squeezing hard and pressing stains of darkness into the skin.

When they kiss, it’s so _near_ to completion. It is warm, wet, pleasurable on a physical scale that Vanitas understands others feel, but with _them_ , it is what they both crave. It is light and darkness tangled together, grasping and reaching, moving to fill in gaps and make something finished. A realized picture. A whole person.

Vanitas feels his heart in his throat. He feels Ventus’ fingers move from his jaw and chest to cradle his head, bringing them closer. His heart cries out for more, more, _more_ as Ventus pushes his tongue into Vanitas’ mouth. Vanitas grabs frantically at Ventus’ shirt, tugging him closer, enough that they’re laying against each other. Their chests are pressed together, the melody of Ventus’ heart accompanying Vanitas’ harmonies. They are _here_ together, insatiable hearts leading to desperate kisses and touches that are never enough.

He moans into the kiss, lets Ventus pull away for air before dragging him down again. They dive into darkness together, but they’re whisked out safely into the morning light. In their constant dance of back and forth, there is the added enticement of Ventus’ moans and whines, the way he pulls at Vanitas’ hair, wordlessly asking for something that Vanitas responds to. There is the way their lips fit together, perfectly pressed, red and swollen and wonderful. There is the way Ventus opens his eyes to gaze down at him when they pull away, breath hot and heavy. The fire that rests within those eyes engulfs him and leaves Vanitas hard and throbbing.

Ventus’ fingers trail down Vanitas’ face, stopping at his cheeks and holding there. “Vanitas...” he whispers, his name sweet on Ventus’ tongue.

His voice compels Vanitas into motion. Vanitas’ hands move of their own accord, grabbing Ventus’ hips and keeping him in place. His eyes widen slightly, searching Ventus’ face for answers to the questions assaulting his mind. He is still calm; he is careful of what emotions he shows his counterpart. There is only so much that needs to be known. Ventus _wants_ something, something specific, and Vanitas knows without a doubt that he will give Ventus everything. That is the depth of his devotion, the strength of his dedication.

With his actions and expression alone, Vanitas asks what it is that Ventus wants. And Ventus, all open plains and warm, spring afternoons, just kisses Vanitas softly with a tongue laced with light.

Vanitas spreads his legs, bends his knees, and flips them over, his hands on Ventus’ hips to guide his fall. Raindrops fall from Vanitas’ hair onto Ventus’ face. Ventus doesn’t blink, doesn’t care about the change in position or the fact that he’s slowly getting as wet as Vanitas is. He lets the water fall upon him, drips of darkness that are easily burned away into nothing.

Vanitas settles, just as Ventus did, but he places his hands on either side of Ventus’ head. When Vanitas looks into those eyes, he sees emotions that he’d never thought to be associated with himself. He sees understanding that goes past shattered hearts and multi-colored glass, through anger, blood, pain and suffering. Ventus wraps his arms around him, content to keep him there, flush against him.

And Vanitas pushes his fingers into soft, fat cheeks, eyebrows furrowing as he cradles the pieces of light that have found their way inside himself. They fade away, eventually. They fade and go and they’re both left frustrated at what could be and what will never come to pass.

With a soft sigh that carries so much with it, Vanitas leans down to kiss him again. Ventus kisses back, lifting his head up off the bed, but Vanitas only kisses him twice before pulling away and moving instead to Ventus’ neck. He is only a little gentle at first before his bites turn harsh and desperate. Ventus whines in his ear, whispering his name low enough that it sets Vanitas’ body on fire. It only encourages him. With every jerk and pull and tug, Vanitas knows Ventus is enjoying this.

There is love in every bite but hate in every kiss. There is hostility, longing, violence, and yearning. There are black painted nails scratching down cheeks, an uncomfortable looking smile accompanying it. A smug smirk sits upon Ventus' pink lips, goading and confident.

They kiss again. It's deeply intrusive, a tongue pushing past lips without invitation but being readily accepted. He gives Ventus what he wants. He gives him what he craves; kisses with strings of darkness attached. They tinge pale skin with purple and black, tingling with emotions that Vanitas can never voice. Those feelings leave markings on Ventus’ skin and he squirms in Vanitas’ arms, his voice breaking as whines escape his throat.

Vanitas continues biting. Ventus is trembling, eyes foggy with arousal and pleasure and Vanitas wants to stare into those eyes, memorize every piece of the picture, but he _needs_ to continue. He hikes up Ventus’ shirt and runs his tongue over hot skin and battle scars. He feels every shake and jerk of Ventus’ body, knows how he’s feeling without seeing his expression. They’re too in tune to be blind. Ventus gave him one kiss and Vanitas knew exactly what to do afterwards. He is the response to Ventus’ call, the answer to his question, the dark to his light.

He presses kisses with sighs of darkness against Ventus’ chest, bites with canines dipped with shadow along his stomach. He creates a masterpiece that only he can see, and right before he reaches the elastic of Ventus’ sweatpants, he looks up to see the twirling, fading wisps of darkness peppered over Ventus’ body. They rest there, only for a moment, before they are gone, swallowed by light and leaving nothing behind.

Ventus squirms at their absence, his hands reaching out to grip Vanitas’ still damp hair. Vanitas smirks and pulls at Ventus’ sweatpants with one hand. He presses his face against blonde curls, breathing in the combined smell of musk and precum. Vanitas’ eyes close and he steadies himself, breathing ragged and disjointed until he calms, nails scratching at Ventus’ inner thighs.

Vanitas doesn’t start with kisses or teases or any of the things Ventus likes to do. He is bold and brash and abrasive. He is slow at times but quick in others, and this is one of those rare times. He is addicted to Ventus’ reactions. They spur him forward, trample on his heart, squeeze his throat and leave him dazed and shivering. Once Ventus is free, Vanitas grabs him quickly, hand giving the base of his cock a single stroke before there is nothing. He looks up at the light of his heart, his grin turning devious as he notices that Ventus has removed one of his hands from Vanitas’ hair to prop himself up on an elbow. He is panting, eyes barely open, hair messier than usual and tongue lolling out of his mouth.

That is Vanitas’ favorite look. _That_ is what drives him up the wall. Those vibrant green eyes reduced to a faded, hazy shell of what they normally are. Ventus, desperate and aching for Vanitas and Vanitas _alone._ He can’t look away. He doesn't want to. He drinks in as much as he can, returning for seconds and thirds and fourths. Ventus wants him _just_ as much as Vanitas had all those years ago, as much as he _still_ does now. It is clear in other ways but _that look_ is at the top of Vanitas’ list.

He doesn’t keep Ventus waiting any longer. He opens his mouth and takes in as much of Ventus as he can.

There is a _gorgeous_ moan that has Vanitas shuddering for a full minute. He closes his eyes and gets love drunk off of the taste of Ventus in his mouth, the taste of salty skin and precum mixing with his saliva is so _delicious_. He bobs his head as he moves, strategically taking in more and more of Ventus’ cock as he goes. The hand in his hair pulls so hard that it hurts but Vanitas leans into the harsh touch. It must feel good for Ventus to do that. It must feel _really_ good. Vanitas pulls back to take a breath, licks his lips, stares down at Ventus’ glistening cock. He can feel Ventus’ fingers trembling in his hair and he huffs out a laugh right before leaning down to give the head a long suck.

 _“Van--ah!”_ Ventus moans throatily. He secures his hold on Vanitas’ head and pushes down, making him do what Vanitas was already planning on doing. But the extra encouragement is welcome, very much so. Vanitas rakes his fingers down Ventus’ hips, darkness sizzling into his skin. He knows it burns in a way that only Ventus can take. Light chases those flames, rockets towards them and smothers them. If only they could last a little longer. If only light wasn’t so easily corrupted. If only darkness wasn’t so hastily chased away.

Ventus eases his head all the way down and keeps him there, his thighs trembling, hand shaking, voice a melodic trill of sounds and gasps and whines that has Vanitas closing his eyes in content. It isn’t hard to stay like this. He even likes being pushed down, made to hold, puddy beneath Ventus’ fingertips. Still, Ventus is in control. Still, he is leading the way through the rockiness that is their relationship. And they both get what they want this way; Ventus receives pleasure, beats of darkness and the warm, wet feeling of Vanitas’ mouth on his cock. Vanitas gets to hear every sound, every whisper, every plea that spills from light-seared lips.

Hips begin moving, upward thrusts into Vanitas’ mouth that make him moan and curl blackened fingertips into sweaty flesh. Ventus thrusts shallowly into his mouth, quick movements of his hips that are unhindered by Vanitas’ hands. Ventus chases that pleasure, hurdles towards it and Vanitas is shaking in his hands, matching his enthusiasm, wanting to swallow Ventus’ cock whole, take as much of it as he possibly can. He wants Ventus to press down harder, to thrust harder, to be rough and forceful and angry and keep _saying his name_ like he is now, erratic syllables that have his pulse jumping.

Ventus’ cock is the sweetest flavor Vanitas has ever tasted. His hands are the softest touch Vanitas has ever felt. His light is the warmest embrace he’s ever experienced. Vanitas is endlessly and helplessly drowning and there is no want to escape. Let him fall, let him dive with arms and legs outstretched. What awaits him is so much more than what he originally thought. When he closes his eyes and hones his senses, he relishes in the fact that he is completely and utterly surrounded by Ventus. He moans around Ventus’ cock and pushes his fingers into Ventus’ skin when his body yells for air.

Ventus lets him up immediately, but after a second of heavy breathing, Vanitas is down again, lips coated in precum, throat sore, and knees aching. He moves his right hand under Ventus’ thigh, prompting him to continue where he left off. Vanitas wants more of that. He enjoyed it, _loved_ it. Ventus takes his cue and holds him steady, his thrusts getting more desperate, pounding and ruthless as Vanitas clenches his eyes shut and presses closer to the bed, holds on tightly to Ventus like a lifeline.

Ventus comes with a hard pull on Vanitas’ hair and a moan that’s loud enough to echo through the room and bounce off the castle walls. He shivers as he coats the inside of Vanitas’ mouth with his cum. He pants and breathes Vanitas’ name under his breath as Vanitas savors every drop, licks his lips and cleans Ventus’ dick like his cum is life-sustaining. His tongue sweeps and moves and twirls as if he can’t get enough of the heady taste of musk and cum and sweat. Vanitas licks the salt off his lips. He wipes his mouth and searches for any that he missed.

Ventus retracts his hand, fingers trembling as he rests it by his side on the bed. He’s staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving. “Van,” he lowly whispers. He starts to say something else, but Vanitas is already moving. It’s so needless that Ventus beckons him closer when Vanitas is going there anyway. He crawls over Ventus, his hard dick dragging over Ventus’ spent one. Vanitas lowers himself carefully, taking his earlier position. His attention is on his counterpart alone, not himself, not his cock straining in his underwear, not the nagging need in his stomach that begs for release. His fingers brush aside smooth bangs so he can get a better look at those eyes.

Ventus is still lost in the euphoria of release, and he looks _mesmerizing_. Vanitas leans down to kiss away the specks of light from his lips. Ventus blinks his eyes slowly, moves his hips, and then his eyes widen with realization.

“W-wait,” he says, and clears his throat. “I haven’t--Let me--”

“No,” Vanitas interrupts, voice hoarse. He eases Ventus back down on the bed, coaxing him to stay where he is.

“But--!”

“Stay here,” Vanitas says. He’s already gotten what he wants the most. The rest can wait. He looks for something reflected in those verdant eyes. He looks and finds the usual nonsense that all guardians of light boast about, but deep within the light of his heart, there is more. There has _always_ been more to him, to both of them. There is a moment of pure satisfaction, of brilliance and fulfillment, but then it is lost again. Vanitas kisses him again to ease that pain, and Ventus grabs hold of him tightly, refusing to let go.

Ventus looks angry when Vanitas pulls back. “I want to suck you off,” he says.

Vanitas hums, as if considering it, and runs his nails down Ventus’ jaw. “No.”

Stubborn to a fault, Ventus doesn’t accept that. But, he does change strategies. “... Later?”

Hm. Vanitas _does_ actually consider that. He bites down on Ventus’ bottom lip, hard enough to make Ventus flinch and bleed. “Maybe.”

Ventus beams like he won something, and Vanitas' half of their heart pulses in his chest. It’s that smile of his. A strong outpouring of light like that is nearly blinding, but Vanitas takes it and holds it, kisses that light until it dances with darkness and becomes something grey.

Warm, sweaty hands roam over Vanitas’ back. Ventus comforts him with affection and touches and mopey glances that show that he’s concerned about Vanitas’ pleasure and well-being. Vanitas would do anything for him. He both hates and loves the fact.

Vanitas doesn’t say it; he never will, but because he is uniquely tied to Ventus, he has an insatiable want for affection, an urge for proximity, a _need_ for acknowledgement. Vanitas is powerful, poisonous, and toxic. He is a void of darkness, a being not meant to exist. He is every hated and begrudged emotion. He is everything that Ventus isn’t, and yet they still come together like this, holding each other, looking into one another’s eyes with something that isn’t malice and misunderstanding.

 _Look at me and only me_ , Vanitas feels the shadows of their heart whisper. _Look at me. I am your_ heart! _What more could you need?_

And when Ventus looks at him, when light green eyes fixate on amber, there is relief, there is understanding, there is a closeness that mirrors that of them being whole again.

Ventus looks at him, moves his hands up to cup his face, rubs his soft thumbs over Vanitas’ scarred cheeks, and smiles at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

And Vanitas doesn’t say it, but he is a slave to that feeling. He’s hooked on it. It is deep and claiming and it has sunk its claws into the void that is Vanitas’ shattered heart. He would do anything for Ventus, anything, anything, and so much more. But he will keep the extent and significance of his devotion entirely to himself.


End file.
